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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25946641">Emeralds and Insights</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mud_Lark/pseuds/Mud_Lark'>Mud_Lark</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Endeavour (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bars and Pubs, Case Fic, Friendship, Gen, Mystery, Rivalry, Tags May Change</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 07:06:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,244</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25946641</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mud_Lark/pseuds/Mud_Lark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Stolen emeralds, lost love, and new hope. A story of how Jim Strange failed to solve three mysteries.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Endeavour Morse &amp; Jim Strange</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Emeralds and Insights</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drusilla_951/gifts">Drusilla_951</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonslover98/gifts">Dragonslover98</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was a blazing afternoon in late summer.  The skies were high and hot, electric blue and cloudless, and the sun stared down like a glaring eye.  The men of Castle Gate Station were working the scene of an overnight burglary at a grand old house in the Parks Road.  Sergeant Jim Strange walked out onto the sandstone flags of its piazza, the heat greeting him as if he had walked into an oven.  He stood for a moment, making his last notes on his interviews with the servants, dotting his I’s and crossing his T’s with such care that his tongue stuck out the side of his mouth. </p><p>Another detective was approaching.  He carefully stepped over the broken glass, avoiding the biggest shards of the window that the burglars had broken to get in.  His auburn hair was demonstrating a tendency to curl in the humidity, and his usually pale face was pink and beaded with sweat.  “Going to rain,” he said.</p><p>“What’s that?”</p><p>Morse jutted out his chin. “Going to rain.”</p><p>Strange looked back.  A bank of clouds  had snuck up on him, heavy gray with a dark and churning underbelly of thunderstorm. “Blimey.  Looks nasty.”</p><p>“Darkness at noon…” said Morse to himself. “What did the staff have to say?”  </p><p>“The old lady employs a gardener, a cook, a chauffeur, and a maid,” said Strange, extending a finger for each. “None of them live on-site. The cook showed up to work just as the old lady was raising the alarm at seven o’clock this morning. The other three arrived after we did and knew nothing whatever about the business.”</p><p>Morse sighed, looking miserable in the heat.   </p><p>“This looks like a professional job,” said Strange. “Probably that same crew of burglars that’s been operating across the home counties.” </p><p>Morse frowned.  He was standing with one arm barred across his middle, the other arm perpendicular, tugging fretfully at his earlobe. “I’d like Uniform to do a full canvass of the grounds before we go. See if the burglars left anything behind...”  </p><p>Strange snorted. “Not likely to have dropped the emeralds, were they?”</p><p>“Maybe not all of the stuff was valuable…”</p><p>“Uniform’s already had a good look-see, Morse.”</p><p>“I know that.”</p><p>“Canvass isn’t likely to do any good, matey.  Scotland Yard’s been all over these burglaries. They say this is a careful crew, and if they haven’t nicked them with the help of all the king’s horses and all the king’s men, well, we’re not likely to.”</p><p>“All the same,” said Morse with a lightning flash of blue eye, and there was a pause. “If you don’t mind. Of course.”</p><p>Jim Strange’s elevation in rank over Morse had happened three years previously, and while the relationship had been fruitful in the meantime, it had also not been without its thorns. Usually they just got on with it; but there were times when Strange’s instincts told him that the lopsided arrangement still irritated his counterpart —and probably always would.  </p><p>A rumble of thunder sent a frisson of unease through the stagnant air.</p><p>Jim sniffed. “Suit yourself,” he said. “Just finish up before the storm, alright?”</p><p>Morse called the constables over from where they were hiding from the sun in the empty garage, having a furtive smoke. He set up his canvass near where the burglars had abandoned the crowbars, pickaxe, and bolt cutters they had used to break into the old lady’s safe.  He directed the men to stand at regular intervals, and demonstrated how they were to look methodically from left to right. As a Detective Sergeant, Morse then had every right to sit back and supervise his underlings’ progress — but Morse had never quite been able to be so hands-off, nor was he able to resist whetting his mind against a challenge, no matter how mundane. And so Strange was hardly surprised when Morse oh-so nonchalantly toed the ground, then kicked a pebble, then bent at the waist —hands in pockets, forehead all creased —and began to scan the ground for an unlikely bit of glinting gold, a bit of shining pearl, a treasure atop the heated sandstone.  </p><p>Ten minutes of this yielded nothing but broken glass, a nail, and a little brass key.</p><p>Exasperated, Strange went around to the police van and had a word with the departing Scene of Crime team, but their report did not make him a happy man. The hinges of the old lady’s safe had been forced open with cleverly applied pressure, leverage, and efficiency. No fingerprints. No real clues. Clean away.  </p><p>The family was not going to be pleased.  </p><p>Strange cast a wary glance at the house, where the elderly widow and her family were anxiously awaiting news of the stolen jewels.  The two grandchildren lived in Buckinghamshire and had come on the run when Strange notified them of the burglary.  They had both been flinty and terse when they spoke with the detectives, and the widow herself had been too upset —tearful; in hysterics —to answer any questions when they tried to interview her directly.  And it was no wonder: the emeralds alone were said to be worth nearly five hundred thousand pounds.  </p><p>When Strange returned to the piazza, he found that Morse hadn’t followed his own canvass instructions for very long.  The detective had broken free of the constables’ orbit and was wandering rogue in the long strip of garden that lay along the property’s boundary wall.  There were a number of dead flowers and boxwoods there, and at the garden’s center was a murky, leaf-clogged ornamental pond swarming with midges and summer flies.  Morse stopped and stood at its edge, frowning, arms crossed, drawing a finger length-wise across his lips.</p><p>“What?” said Strange.</p><p>“If you robbed a house…” Morse stopped. </p><p>“What?”</p><p>“If you robbed a house, and chucked your equipment as soon as you could, it’s because you don’t need it anymore, surely?”</p><p>This didn’t strike Jim Strange as much of an insight. “Well, the burglary is done with,” reasoned Strange. “Why keep it? They lighten their load for escape. And you don’t want to be seen running through the streets of Oxford with a crowbar and a pickaxe, do you? This way you can melt right back into the crowd, calm as you please and pearls in your pockets.”</p><p>Morse said nothing to this.  He was massaging the top of his head, causing the sweat-dampened curls to stick up at sharp angles like a crown.  He made a noise of frustration at the back of his throat and wandered a few more paces around the garden.  </p><p>On any other day, Strange might have been tolerant enough to allow one of Morse’s larks to play out, but Strange’s fuse was much shortened by having drawn the short straw on this high-profile loser of a case.  Inspector Thursday and Mr. Bright were away in London attending a benefit for the Police Widows &amp; Orphans Fund, leaving him the senior man at Castle Gate, the only one available to tell these rich people that their emeralds were likely long gone.  In addition to that, Morse’s canvass of jaded constables had finished its work and was standing about, wilting in their navy blue wools and helmets, eager to get out of the sun—all while eating up Thames Valley payroll.  If this job incurred any overtime because of Morse, Strange would hear about it from Mr. Bright.</p><p>A flicker of lightning electrified the air, and three seconds later there was a crack of thunder.  It was long past time to call it quits. </p><p>“Oi, you three,” called out Strange to his men. “Go back to your beats, alright? Show’s over. Morse, come on, mate, there’s nothing more to see here…. What are you doing?”</p><p>Morse had taken off his jacket and draped it over a rose bush.  His white shirt had gone transparent with sweat around the neck and under the arms, revealing the opaque shape of the vest beneath. He tucked his tie into his shirt and rolled up his sleeves to the elbows. Then to Strange’s great surprise, he got down on his knees and plunged both arms into the fly-buzzing, fetid pond. </p><p>“What is it?” cried Strange.</p><p>Morse didn’t answer.  He was holding his breath against the stench of the pond water inches from his nose, and his face was all wrinkled up in disgust.  After a moment he dragged up a necklace of shiny copper beads. He set it on the wall of the pond, then went in again, coming up with a coral bracelet and a watch.  Lastly, and with much effort, he hauled up a water-logged mahogany box. </p><p>“Blimey, that’s a jewelry box!” said Strange, starting forward. The constables also hurried to gather around the ginger detective, leaning in.  Morse set the box on the ground, breathing out hard, and clapped the water from his hands.  “Are the emeralds in there?” said Strange eagerly.</p><p>“No, no,” said Morse, opening the lid. “There won’t be anything of intrinsic value.”  </p><p>When the lid fell open, a little figurine of a ballerina stood up <em> en pointe </em> in the center of the compartment.  She began to pirouette as the box’s music mechanism gurgled out a drowned, turgid, laboring tune.  The music quickly died, and Morse picked up the box and gave it a few heaves like someone trying to get the ketchup out of a bottle, then he gave the little crank a few brisk turns.  The tune began to play at its proper speed this time, though still with all the strange and halting delicacy of a spider’s spindly movements. “It’s Erik Satie,” said Morse.  A curious, slow-dawning, self-satisfied smile was pulling at the corner of his mouth. “‘Gnossiene No. 1.’”</p><p>Strange grunted as he bent over the box and dug a thick finger through the contents.  They were composed mostly of bizarre, clunky ornaments, a few scraps of painted fabric, and a few articles of profoundly ugly jewelry — stuff that any dotty old lady might hoard, Jim supposed, but certainly nothing of value. “Well,” he said, unable to hide his disappointment. “S’pose it’s something at least. Shows we put in a bit of leg work at any rate.  Nice work, matey.”</p><p>Morse didn’t seem to have registered the praise. He was opening one of the little drawers of the box, revealing that its lovely silk-lined compartments had been spoiled by pond water.  He closed the drawer, opened another, sorted through its contents. He frowned and closed that one too.  </p><p>“What are you looking for?” asked Strange.  </p><p>“Didn’t you see her hands? She has severe arthritis,” said Morse, as if this was any sort of answer. </p><p>Rain was beginning to make little radiating circles on the pond. A shiver of thunder went through the air as Morse tried the last drawer of the box and found it locked. “Constable Williamson,” he called out, “where’s that key you found? Bring it here.”</p><p>The constable produced the key and Morse stuck it in the lock.  It was a perfect fit.  </p><p>“Blimey,” said Strange, amazed. </p><p>The little Satie tune was still tinkling, but slower now, suspenseful, as Morse pulled open the last drawer of the jewelry box.  </p><p>His heat-flushed face lit up as if he had just cracked open a treasure chest. </p><p>There, on the mud-spoiled silk, lay a thin gold band with a little faceted gleam at its apex.  The detective picked it up: it looked impossibly tiny and delicate, even in Morse’s clever slender fingers.  He held the band up close to his face, peering for an inscription, his eyes narrowing in concentration then widening in enlightenment as he found it.  “<em> Libérons nos Rêves </em>,” he said quietly to himself, and smiled in satisfaction.  “Jean Cocteau.”</p><p>“What’s that, matey?”</p><p>“Tell the family they should have all this stuff dried out by a good art conservator right away.” </p><p>Strange blinked. “Art?  It’s just junk.  Just an old lady’s gimcracks and gewgaws.  Like how my old Nan collects salt and pepper shakers, God bless her.”  </p><p>“Nevertheless,” said Morse.  And then, still down on one knee, he held the ring up to Strange.  “Give this to the old lady.”</p><p>“Just this?”</p><p>“Just that.”  </p><p>“Even I can tell this is just gold-plate and glass, mate...”  </p><p>“Trust me,” said Morse. </p><p> The family was wealthy, had connections in Whitehall, and knew every toff and grandee in Oxford.  If they were going to be grateful for the recovery of a penny-ante ring while the old lady’s emeralds and diamonds were still at large on the streets of Oxford, well, it seemed bloody unlikely.  Jim thought of the widow’s hysterics that morning and wondered if he was just setting himself up for a bollocking from a tiny old lady. </p><p>“Trust me,” said Morse again, as if he could read Jim’s thoughts. He looked faintly amused.</p><p>“You, uh —you don’t want the honors for yourself?”</p><p>“Yours by right of rank,” said Morse with a smile that wasn’t entirely friendly. “Besides, I have something I need to talk to Constable Williamson about.  I’ll catch you up.  And don’t forget about that art conservator.”</p><p> Strange wrinkled his brow, trying to puzzle it all out, but with a sigh he decided that there was really just no accounting for Morse sometimes.  “If you say so…” he mumbled, and went off to meet his fate.  </p><p>The big sergeant went around to the front door and was admitted by the maid.  All the curtains had been drawn against the sun, and it was dark inside the house: which gave the expectation of it being cooler. But the air was heavy and stifling inside the house, and Jim felt sweat trickling uncomfortably down his broad back.  He felt more than a bit awkward as the maid ushered him into the front parlor —the same grand room where he and Morse had first spoken with the family.  Strange felt a pang of resentment to be back there, again without assistance from his second in command.  When they had first arrived, Morse had been less than useful.  He had mostly wandered about, peering at all their knick knacks and photos, leaving Strange to bear the brunt of the family’s consternation.  </p><p>The furnishings of the parlor were very fine if out of date.  Oil portraits of Winston Churchill, Queen Victoria, and Horatio Nelson stared down doggedly, snobbishly, and ferociously from their respective walls. There were a shocking number of porcelain figures and glass sculptures posed around the room, cluttering up the space and looking silky and opaque with dust.  The furniture looked antique but plush, and on the credenza were a number of framed Kodachrome photographs of the widow’s husband, the late Lord Attenbury, with various aristocrats and minor royals, bluff sportsmen, and Fleet Street moguls. </p><p>But farther back, hidden, unobtrusive among these boastful photos was a collection of objects of quite a different character. A framed diptych of two black &amp; white photographs, both of a foreign aspect and a turn-of-the-century vintage, stood humbly in the rear. One of the photos depicted a very young, very beautiful, dark-haired ballerina. The other featured this same ballerina posed together with a slim and earnest-eyed young man, both of whom were wearing outlandish, harlequin-like theatrical costumes.  Beside this diptych was a little card with a picture of a saint that looked a bit popish to Jim Strange’s country vicarage-reared eyes, and it bore an inscription in Latin: <em> Requiem aeternam dona eis Domine…  </em>There was a little vase full of dried, dead roses and a fat candle burning next to it.  Bit of a fire hazard that, thought Strange idly.  </p><p>There was a sound of sniffling.  The old lady was sitting in a dramatic winged-back chair all by herself, still crying a little, though very quietly.  The hysterics of the morning had given way to tearful resignation.  A cane with an agile silver rabbit for a handle leaned against the chair.  She was wearing an eccentric ensemble: a long flowing dress with lots of colorful beads around her neck, and a jet headdress atop her silver-haired head.  She must have been a fine looking woman in her day, but she seemed very frail and shrunken now. Tears leaked from her eyes and she dabbed at them with a lace handkerchief.   </p><p>The widow’s two middle-aged grandchildren sat on the Chesterfield sofa opposite, looking very grim, the corners of their mouths turned down while somehow their noses were still stuck up in the air.  Strange felt uncomfortable to have come before them armed with nothing but a trinket as cheap as the prize at the bottom of a cereal box.</p><p>“Dear me, you look overheated,” said the granddaughter with distant sympathy.  “I’d offer you some lemonade, only it seems the kitchen has run out.  Perhaps a glass of cold water…?”</p><p>“No thank you, ma’am.  I don’t wish to take up your time.”</p><p>“Any progress on the emeralds, Inspector?” said the grandson, impatient with these pleasantries.</p><p>Strange wiped away a trickle of sweat that was running down the side of his face.  “Er—I’m just a sergeant, sir.  Sergeant Strange.”</p><p>“Oh I see,” said the man, waspish and annoyed.  “And to whom should I speak in order to get the condescension of an inspector’s look-in on this case?” </p><p>“I’m afraid Inspector Thursday is away, sir.  But he’s due back in a few hours —”</p><p>“ — and by then, our emeralds will be in Fiji, for Christ’s sake!”</p><p>Strange tried to arrange his face into an expression of calm professionalism mixed with apology, but he was afraid the effect looked just as sweaty and nervous as he felt.  This was not going well.</p><p>“Is there any realistic hope of recovering them?” asked the granddaughter. “I hope you understand that it would be a terrible loss to the family if they were not recovered.  My grandmother — I hate to be indelicate —” she said, casting a glance at the matriarch, “but my dear grandmother she hasn’t been<em> all there </em>for quite a while now.  I’m afraid she’s even lost most of her English since the stroke. The emeralds weren’t insured at anything like their current value. It would be an enormous financial loss if they were not recovered.”</p><p>“We’ll leave no stone unturned, ma’am,” said Strange. “But it’ll take some shoe-leather, I’m afraid. These are pros we’re dealing with, sure as I’m standing, and that makes it that much harder. But we’ll do our best.  We’ll get on to Scotland Yard right away —”</p><p>“You do that,” said the grandson sourly, not as impressed by the invocation of the Yard as Strange had hoped.  </p><p>Strange shuffled his feet. “We, uh, we did recover some costume jewelry from the grounds…”  </p><p>“Ah,” sighed the granddaughter, looking rather deflated herself. “<em> Grand-mère </em> has always been a bit of a magpie. She collects all sorts of artistic bric-a-brac. It’s all quite worthless, you see.  But she’ll be glad of it back, in her way. You can just leave whatever you found on the table in the hall on your way out, Sergeant.”</p><p>“Yes, m’am,” said Strange.  “I —well, that is to say my colleague had a fancy that the stuff we recovered might be important,” he said, dutifully putting Morse’s notion forward, but not owning it. “Should be looked at by an art specialist or something-or-other. Right away, he said...”</p><p>The grandson gave a growl of frustration. “Get this idiot out of my sight. Imagine fooling around with that old shit when the <em> emeralds </em> —”</p><p>The granddaughter rose from the sofa and came forward, interrupting her brother with a more polite but equally final dismissal: “Just leave whatever you found on the front table, Sergeant.  And now if you don’t mind, my grandmother needs some peace and quiet.  I trust your men will clear up and leave the property now?”</p><p>“Yes, ma’am,” said Strange. “I’ll keep you posted on our progress, of course—”</p><p>The grandson scoffed.  </p><p>“Thank you for all you have done,” said the granddaughter, now rather icy.  “Good day, Sergeant Strange.”</p><p>Strange nodded and turned, ready to forget all about Morse’s trinket and flee the scene.  But his path out the door took him past the old lady, who was still silently weeping in her chair, her eyes red and her hands trembling as she delicately pressed the lace handkerchief to her face.  </p><p>“Er —there was one thing,” he said.  He hesitated.  Then he leaned down to be closer to the frail old woman, and put out his hand to her.  “I thought that you might like to have this back…”  He uncurled his fingers, revealing the little ring sitting on the expanse of his broad palm.</p><p>“Huhh!”</p><p>The little woman had given a cry — something torn from her —half shock, half joy.  She clapped her hands together and looked up to the heavens, then poured forth a very unexpected torrent of rapid French: “<em> Dieu Merci! Quel soulagement, ma bague de fiancailles </em> ! <em> Comme c’est gentil </em> ! <em> Dieu Soit loué </em> ! <em> Mon pauvre cher François </em>...”  With trembling fingers she took the ring from Strange and kissed it.  </p><p>The grandchildren stared at Strange in astonishment.  </p><p>The old woman was weakly trying to rise from her chair, and Strange held out his big paws and lifted the lady to her feet.  She put her knobbly, arthritic hands on each side of the sergeant’s face and Strange — startled and blinking but obedient —bent down to her, where she kissed him firmly on his left cheek, then his right.  She was then overcome with tears of gratitude.</p><p>“Blimey,” said Strange faintly.</p><p>The granddaughter hurried over to support the widow by the arm. “<em> Mémé </em>, don’t excite yourself,” she said gently.  She stared at Strange as if he had just pulled a rabbit out of hat.</p><p>“Just a bit of legwork,” said Strange, awkwardly, aware that he was blushing.  </p><p>“What did you give her?  She said…”</p><p>“It was a ring, m’am.  Just a little gold ring.”</p><p>A look was exchanged between the two grandchildren.  “My goodness,” said the granddaughter. “We had no idea she still had such a thing as that ring.  How very clever — how very kind — of you to know it would soothe her to have it.” </p><p>“Ah, well...all part of the service, I suppose,” said Strange, but his honest face looked clearly baffled as to what precisely he had done.  </p><p>The woman could see that a portion of the story still required an explanation.  “<em> Grand-mère </em> was a very accomplished ballerina in Paris, as I understand it. She fell in love with a fellow artist, a talented but penniless young dancer. The poor boy died in the Great War not long after he and my grandmother were engaged. A tragic tale. <em> Grand-mère </em> later married an Englishman —the late Lord Attenbury — our grandfather, who was a bit of a bully, I’m afraid.  He never liked her to speak of her past...” </p><p>Much softened by this turn of events, the grandson came forward and shook Strange’s hand.  “I apologize for being a bit abrupt before, what?  I’m sure you understand. I’ll ring up the Chief Constable. A friend from the golf club, you know.  Fine work you’ve done here today.  Fine work.  I’ll tell him I have every confidence…”</p><p>The compliment to his work pleased Strange very much — pleased him almost as much, in fact, as the prospect of being rewarded for it. But Jim also sincerely enjoyed this sort of thing: getting cats down from trees, reuniting lost kiddies with their parents, helping little old ladies.  It was precisely what he gotten into police-work for. No high-flown notions of Justice for Jim Strange, no puzzles to solve. Just doing his duty and steadily taking one step up the ladder after another, that’s all he wanted. </p><p> The old lady, it seemed, had not finished thanking her knight in shining armor.  She said something insistent in French to her granddaughter, who relayed the message to Strange:  “She says she wants to see you to the door. She says you are very handsome.”</p><p>“Blimey,” said Strange.  </p><p>The trio moved into the hall.  Strange saw that one of his men was standing silhouetted against the glaring light of the open front door, waiting for him.  The man was slim and had an almost military posture, hands folded behind his back, a neatness belied by the tumble of his hair.  As Strange got closer, he saw that this man was looking very sly and trying not to smile.  </p><p>“Detective Sergeant Morse,” he said, blushing and covering his confusion by clearing his throat and puffing out his chest very importantly, marching past him.  “With me.” </p><p>Strange hurried down the steps, Morse trailing after him as both ladies stood in the doorway waving goodbye. The tiny old lady waved her handkerchief to Strange as if she were farewelling a gallant soldier off to war.  </p><p>“She was pleased,” said Morse, rather quietly.</p><p>“Course she was, matey.” </p><p>The churning black clouds overhead had finally doused the relentless sun.  There was a sharp crack of thunder and then the sky opened up. </p><p>Strange hurriedly dismissed his team and the whole operation scattered: the constables hurried off to rejoin their beats, and the little blue-and-white squad car trundled off to take the meager evidence back to the nick for processing. Jim put his suit jacket up over his head, but it didn’t do much good against the torrent.  Morse merely ducked his head down lower between his shoulders. “Pub?” he asked, a little plaintively, like a wet ginger tabby asking to come in from the cold.</p><p>“Yeah, go on then.”</p><p>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Part two of this short story will be published next Sunday.  Tip of my hat to melbows for the use of her nan's salt and pepper shaker collection.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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